Until it Be Lost
by gbbluemonday
Summary: Six months ago Reid sent in his resignation and disappeared, leaving the team betrayed and bewildered. Tonight, Hotch receives an unexpected call. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.**

**Rating: Teen for language and some blood.**

**Pairings: None**

**Summary: Six months ago Spencer sent in his resignation and disappeared, leaving the team betrayed and bewildered. Tonight, Hotch receives an unexpected phonecall.**

**Note: This will likely be three-parts. It's mostly unedited, as I wrote it last night in a fit of insomnia (insanity?).**

"All things appear and disappear because of the concurrence of causes and conditions. Nothing ever exists entirely alone; everything is in relation to everything else." Buddha

Hotch can hear the phone ringing before he even opens the door, the tinny electric hum sure to wake Jessica and Jack. Sure enough, before he can even fumble in his pockets for his keys he hears the telltale thump of Jessica's footsteps on the stairs and then the ringing is cut short by a voice muffled with sleep and the barrier of the door.

It's midnight—almost exactly, and considering the past few months Hotch doesn't mind the lateness of the hour at all. Their past three cases have literally been back to back, and after two weeks of not seeing the interior of their own houses—and in Hotch's case, his son—no one was willing to risk being called out again without even setting foot in their own state. When the most recent unsub had been caught and Hotch had announced that they could either leave immediately or wait till morning, the clamber for the plane was close enough to an affirmative vote.

Hotch is surprised when he finally manages to open the door and Jessica is still on the phone, nodding patiently, her eyelids heavy with sleep. He takes a moment to thank the powers that be for Haley's sister, whose patience with all living creatures has been invaluable ever since Haley died, and surpasses anything even Hotch—who considers himself well-disciplined, at least—could manage. He is certain he would not be carrying this conversation on had he been the one to answer the phone. He is almost certain he wouldn't have answered the phone in the first place.

He waves at Jessica as he shuts the door behind him and tosses his briefcase and keys on the couch. She smiles and returns the gesture, speaking into the phone as she does. "Mhm, yes, that's right. He just walked in, actually, would you like to speak to him? Just one moment."

She covers the receiver with her hand and pushes it at Hotch.

"For you," she says. "Surprise, surprise."

Hotch swallows a groan, certain that the voice on the other end is going to be Strauss or Garcia or some other member of his team, and though whatever comes through the phone will be inevitable, he decides to postpone it a moment longer. Pressing his own hand over the receiver as he takes the phone, he nods to Jessica.

"How has everything been?" he says in a soft voice, thinking of Jack sleeping upstairs.

"It's been good." Jessica smiles amicably. "We have a whole museum's worth of artwork for you in the morning."

"Crayon?"

"We've graduated to colored pencils, actually. You know, he's really pretty good Aaron. Good eye for perspective." She nods to the phone. "You should get that. She sounded like it was urgent."

Hotch sighs. "I'll see if it can wait till morning. Thanks Jessica."

Jessica nods and ambles off to the kitchen rather than returning upstairs. Like Hotch, she knows that in this world, urgent _never_ waits till morning. Hotch puts the phone to his ear.

"Agent Hotchner."

"Hello? Is this—um—_Aaron_ Hotchner?"

Hotch frowns. The voice is female, but it neither belongs to Strauss nor his team members, nor anyone else he knows for that matter.

"This is he. May I ask who's calling?"

"Um—hi. My name is Marie Brolin. I'm Spencer's landlady."

Hotch freezes, his grip on the phone tightening until his knuckles pale.

"Ms. Brolin, I don't know where you got this number, but—"

"Oh, I got it—you're his emergency contact, the one he put on the rental agreement. I know it's late, I'm so sorry, but I didn't want to have to call the police. He's usually such a good tenant, so nice, I don't want to get him in trouble with the law."

Hotch hesitates. _Trouble with the law_? He puts a hand to his eyes to rub away the sleep which has been hanging over him so tantalizingly ever since the jet touched down, trying at the same time to swallow the frustration that is rising from his chest at the knowledge that he is probably going to have to postpone reuniting with his bed for another night.

"Is he all right?" he asks, though his voice conveys more impatience than concern.

A pause.

"I…think so. I mean, I'd call the, I'd call nine one one if I thought…look, his neighbors are complaining, and he won't…I just don't want him to get in any trouble. He's such a nice person. I didn't want to call you so late at night, but I really don't know any of Spencer's friends. I don't even know if he _has_ friends. Will you please come?"

Hotch sighs. The smell of coffee begins to drift from the kitchen and he wonders if he can drink a cup slowly enough that whatever this is will blow over and he will be able to drag himself upstairs to collapse after all.

"What's your address?"

The woman hesitates again, clearly surprised that Hotch doesn't know where Spencer lives, then tells him. Hotch's grip tightens to a deadly vice on the phone.

"That's ten minutes from here," he says.

"Sorry?"

"Never mind," he says, a bit too sharply, for his reply is a nervous silence, which he breaks by adding, "I'll be there soon."

One hastily gulped cup of coffee and a quick kiss on his son's forehead later, Hotch finds himself behind the wheel of his car, allowing his GPS to guide him through the darkened, abandoned streets which lead to the address given to him by the landlady. He's surprised at how well he's managing to keep his eyes open, considering how often his thoughts wander to his bed and the growing distance between him and it. He wants to blame the coffee, but Jessica doesn't make a particularly strong cup, and besides his job made him virtually immune to the stuff years ago. In truth he feels anxious—and right now that just irritates him. He never envisioned himself driving through DC in the middle of the night to answer a noise disturbance called in on one of his team members.

_Ex_-team members.

Hotch reminds himself of this fact as if it will help him keep his usual façade of unshakability, but in reality it just increases his irritation. He wants to be concerned about the call, wants to be able to wear a face which reflects that when he meets with the landlady, but he knows Reid—_knew_ him, at least—well enough to know that when he gets an idea in his head he can stay up for days thinking it through, reading books about it, absorbing whatever knowledge he an before his mind inevitably has to submit to the necessity of sleep. More than likely Reid has left his television on too loud while watching public access, or maybe he's playing whale songs on his speakers—something like that. No one has to tell Hotch that when Reid gets into something it's hard to get him out. It used to be Morgan's responsibility, a not-unfriendly but stern, "_Reid_," whenever he was getting out of hand. Now, it seems, it has fallen to Hotch.

Hotch wants to be worried about Reid, wants to care about his safety and well being, wants this trip to be a meeting between friends instead of what it will inevitably devolve into—a stiff, awkward reunion, one which, if Hotch has anything to say about it, will not last long.

He shakes his head to clear it and nearly misses his next turn. Jerking the wheel a little too hard, he makes the turn, trying to think of the pictures Jack has drawn for him, wishing he were with his son. Instead, his mind conjures an entirely different picture, one of a single, crisp sheet of white paper, embossed with the FBI crest and a stiff, formal note:

_Dear Agent Hotchner_,

_I regretfully tender my resignation from this team and from the FBI_, _effective immediately_.

_Sincerely_,

_Dr_._ Spencer Reid_

It had been delivered that morning before he had gotten into work, slipped under his door to greet him when he stepped on it on his way in. Hotch read the letter expressionlessly, convinced that the two-line note must have been some sort of joke—though one in very bad taste. If the sender had been going for shock value, they had failed in even that; he had seen Reid the night before. The team had gone out for drinks and Reid had been right there, talking and laughing, if a little subdued. He hovered over the note for a moment, ready to crumple it and toss it in the trash, but he stopped before he touched it. He intended to find the sender, and when he did, have a little conversation about taste. He pushed it aside and went on with the morning paperwork.

It wasn't until later that day, after Garcia had poked her head into his office to announce that they had a case and the team had assembled in the round table room that Hotch noticed Reid had not joined them.

"Where's Reid?" he said.

The others, who had already gathered around the table, looked up with expressions of mild surprise.

"We thought you'd know," said Prentiss. "He hasn't been in this morning, we thought he might be sick."

"You haven't heard from him?" said Morgan.

Hotch frowned, thinking of the note on his desk, but he pushed it to the back of his mind.

"I haven't heard from him, but let's put off calling in the fire brigade," he said. "Reid can take care of himself. Let's worry about the case for now. Garcia, what have we got?"

But even as Garcia elaborated on their most recent series of bloody murders, Hotch found that the note continued to poke at the back of his consciousness, and when the rest of the team had left the room to collect their go-bags, he stopped by the door and laid a hand on Garcia's shoulder.

"We don't have time to get a hold of Reid before we leave, but I want you to get in touch, all right Garcia?"

"I'm so on it it's become a part of me, sir," she said, her face all seriousness. "If I can scrounge up anything on this case, it will be one Dr. Spencer Reid."

And so they went. And so the case went on, a series of murders involving high-school age girls. And though they went on as efficiently as ever, the absence of Reid had hung heavier and heavier over the remaining members of the team, until its oppressive weight seemed more real and tangible than air itself. When Garcia had finally called Hotch, the others had practically jumped in their attempt to get as close to the conversation as possible. What Garcia had to say, however, was not what any of them wanted to hear.

"I can't find him," she reported, her usually chipper voice miserable. "I've called him about a gajillion times, he's not picking up his phone."

"There must be something wrong," Rossi said. "Garcia, you should go to his place, see if—"

"That was my first thought too, sir," Garcia interrupted. "Well, second thought. I went to his desk first. I thought maybe he had forgotten his phone. I know, it was a long shot, but it was preferable to the alternative, you know, that he was lying in a ditch somewhere alone and with no one to find him and nurse him back to health—as I was already envisioning myself doing."

"What did you find, Garcia?"

There was a pause.

"His desk has been cleaned out."

"_What_?" Morgan said.

"That was my reaction too, sweetie. I thought there must be some sort of mistake, that someone else had done it, but all of his mess is gone, and there's a stack of recently-completed paperwork on his desk. It looks like he finished up all his old files and took his things with him. And then I thought _that_ must have been a mistake, but…"

Another pause. This time, Hotch broke it.

"But _what_ Garcia?"

She inhaled deeply. "I went into his file. His FBI file. It says…it says his employment has been terminated."

In retrospect, Hotch wished that that had been the end of it, that they had just accepted that Spencer was gone and moved on with their jobs. It would have saved them a lot of strife and, to be honest, he probably wouldn't harbor such ill-will as he did now had he—and the others—not expended so much energy trying to find out exactly what had happened to make Reid leave. But that had not been the case.

Garcia had spent the next couple of weeks trying to send covert messages to Reid by hacking his home computer. Emily enlisted Seaver to accompany her to his apartment one evening on their way home from the office. Even Rossi had put in an effort, dropping a few emails (to an account Reid rarely visited, having created it only at JJ's insistence that they needed an easier way to share photos of Henry) in his spare time. And Hotch had left several terse messages on Reid's answering machine, all of them to the effect of, "Call me as soon as you get this. This is something we need to talk about." But the only response to the hacking was the sudden disappearance of Reid's computer from the network. On their third visit to his apartment, Seaver and Emily had discovered that Reid had moved, and had left no forwarding address. Rossi's emails went unanswered, and eventually started getting bounced back, for the address he was sending them to no longer existed. Hotch's messages stagnated in Reid's inbox.

He had, it seemed, cut them off completely.

Still, no one had been as persistent as Morgan. At first it had only been a few phone calls, a few confused messages. Then the few phone calls became a few a day, made during lunch breaks and whenever he thought no one else was listening. The confusion became hurt—"I don't get why you won't even _talk_ to us, man!"—and finally, the hurt became anger. Then one morning Morgan had stormed into the office, clutching a crumpled envelope which he had thrust at Hotch without a word before storming off to his own office.

The envelope contained a note, this one handwritten in an untidy scrawl which Hotch recognized as Reid's handwriting. It read:

_Has it occurred to you that maybe I DON'T WANT TO TALK_? _I left for a reason, and this utter disregard for personal space and privacy was part of it. Please stop calling me. I'm changing my number. Tell Garcia that tracking me is illegal. _

The envelope was addressed to Morgan, but there was no return address. It was the last they heard from Reid.

Until now. And, Hotch reminds himself, he hasn't _really_ heard from Reid at all. He's heard from his landlady—the landlady of an address ten minutes from his own.

The BAU has spent the last six months silently wondering whether Reid is alive, watching the news for some mention of him which they are sure has to come eventually, for now that he is off the team surely Reid must be using his genius for something newsworthy. But it never comes. And so they spend the rest of their time running through cases, occasionally struggling—they chalk it up to being understaffed, since no one has been hired to replace Reid—and avoiding mentioning Reid's name to Morgan, who is liable to explode at the slightest hint of it. And now Hotch finds out Reid has been living ten minutes away this whole time.

This thought works its way to the forefront of Hotch's mind and anger flares in his chest, distracting him momentarily so that he almost misses the building and has to circle around to get back to the front entrance. Until this moment he has been envisioning a quick, emotionless moment, wherein he tells Reid to keep it down and take his name off of his emergency contacts. Now an entirely different, slightly angrier, much longer scenario is in his mind.

He cuts the engine and steps onto the curb.


	2. Chapter 2

"When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained." Mark Twain

The landlady—Ms. Brolin—is waiting by the door when he approaches, and she pushes it open to allow him to enter. Hotch glances around the neighborhood as he steps inside. It's hard to tell because it's so dark, but if he had to stake money on it, the place is a definite step down from Reid's last apartment. Not that an FBI salary allowed for anything extravagant, but on the one occasion Hotch had been to Reid's old place—just to pick up a file he had given to Reid on a consult—it had been clean, well-maintained, almost upscale. After he had disappeared, one of the theories the team had entertained was that Reid had taken another, better job somewhere, perhaps doing research or something of the sort. If the trash on the sidewalks and the incessant barking of a dog somewhere down the street—not to mention the pervasive scent of stale cigarettes and booze—are any indication, they can safely check that possibility off the list. Not that it's _trashy_—but if Hotch had to guess, he would have pegged this as the sort of place college students and retirees on a budget would live.

The inside is no different. There are locks on the doors, yes, and the lobby is clean, but there are absolutely no adornments, no accoutrements of any kind. Just a desk and, on the far wall, elevator doors. Ms. Brolin ushers him inside, locks the door, and turns to face him, wringing her hands. She's short and a little overweight, wearing a pink bathrobe, but not as old as Hotch imagined her. She doesn't bother introducing herself.

"Mr. Hotchner," she says, "thank you so much for coming. Please, follow me."

Hotch frowns a little as she leads him toward the elevators. She wastes no time in getting to the point, and judging by her stance and the way she seems to be trying to twist her hands raw, these last fifteen minutes have been stressful. They step onto the elevator before another word is spoken and she punches the button for the fourth floor. When the elevator starts its jerky ascent, she turns to him and says,

"It got worse right after I called you. He was banging around before, but I think he's started breaking things. I was going to call the authorities if you hadn't shown up in the next couple of minutes."

"What exactly happened?" Hotch says, a little alarmed by this description. _Breaking things_?

Ms. Brolin sniffs. "I don't know, exactly. The noise started a couple of hours ago, and his neighbors called me to complain. I went up there and knocked on his door, but he wouldn't answer, and I didn't want to barge in—I mean, normally I would, of course, but Spencer's such—such a private person. He's really never been a problem before."

Hotch sighs, a sigh which barely conceals his exhaustion and irritation. She hasn't even tried the door?

"What do you want me to do?" he says, a bit snappishly. Ms. Brolin shakes her head.

"I don't know. I thought maybe a friend…?"

Hotch looks away as the elevator reaches the fourth floor. He doesn't bother telling Ms. Brolin that he is not Reid's friend, that he doesn't know how he would characterize their relationship. Estranged coworkers? That doesn't sound right; coworkers don't become estranged. They just aren't coworkers anymore. Again, he thinks of how he's going to tell Reid to take his name off of his contacts.

Then, for the first time it strikes Hotch how odd it is that Reid would designate him as emergency contact, especially considering how Reid parted company with the FBI.

The elevator doors slide open, and Ms. Brolin leads them out. As soon as they are in the hallway, Hotch can hear it: It's muffled, but the sound of breaking glass can be heard coming from a few doors down.

There are three people standing in the hallway, and just as Hotch suspected it's an elderly couple and a young kid, not more than nineteen or twenty. As soon as the old woman spots Hotch, still wearing his suit, she hurries over.

"Oh, thank God," she says. "I see you finally got it in your head to call the authorities, Marie, though God knows it's probably too late. I don't know how Harry and I are ever going to get to sleep at this hour. Are you going to do something about this?" she snaps, addressing Hotch.

"I'm doing my best, Annie," Ms. Brolin says, her voice barely concealing a little whimper. "Come on, go back to bed. We'll take care of it. I'm doing my best."

"Your best? You call this your best? Do you hear this noise, Marie?"

"Come on, lay off her," the college kid mutters. "She got the suit here, didn't she?" He looks at Hotch from under long bangs. "What are you, a detective?"

Hotch decides that it's best not to aggravate the old woman by admitting that he's not a cop.

"I work with the FBI," he says, "but right now I'm just here to help."

Hotch and Mrs. Brolin squeeze past the old couple and down to the door from behind which the sounds of glass smashing emanate. The closer they draw, the more unnerved Hotch becomes; those sounds are certainly not coming from a stereo or television, and it sets him on edge instinctively. He realizes he left his gun at home, and for some reason he's starting to regret it.

Ms. Brolin approaches the door and raises a tentative hand to knock softly.

"Spencer?" she says. "It's Marie. Spencer, can we come in?"

There is no reply but another crash. Ms. Brolin steps aside, indicating that Hotch should try. Hotch steps up to the door and knocks firmly.

"Reid, it's Agent Hotchner."

There is an audible pause in the noise, enough for Hotch to know that whoever is inside has heard him. He raises his voice.

"Reid, I'm coming in."

There is a longer, more distinct pause, and Hotch takes this as an invitation. Ms. Brolin presses a key into his hand, but it turns out he doesn't need it; the door isn't locked, and it slides open smoothly when Hotch pushes it.

The apartment is all dark. The crashing seems to be coming from nearby, but Hotch can't see, and when he tries the switch by the door nothing happens. His thoughts are no longer on his anger: His scalp is tingling, his heart pumping adrenaline which he usually reserves for encounters with unsubs. To his surprise, Ms. Brolin presses a small flashlight into his hand.

"Why don't you step outside," he says, trying to keep his voice calm, to make it sound like a suggestion. Nevertheless, Ms. Brolin backs eagerly out of the darkened entryway. Hotch steps forward and closes the door most of the way behind him.

"Reid?" he calls.

At long last the crashing ceases, and from about fifteen feet away there is a scuffle of movement. Hotch turns the flashlight on.

He can't help it—his heart jumps a little when the beam of light lands on a figure. For a moment he's convinced that it isn't Reid, that it's some vagabond who has broken into the apartment and caused all this trouble for him so late at night. The tattered state of the clothes on the tall, thin figure would suggest as much. But then the light reaches the figure's face and there's no mistaking him.

Reid lifts an arm to shield his eyes as the light hits them, then slowly lowers it and squints in Hotch's direction. Then he lurches sideways, hands scrabbling at the wall. A moment later a single fluorescent light flickers to life in the ceiling. Reid's eyes find Hotch.

"Hotch?" he says. Then, "Hotch!"

There's a note of adulation in Reid's voice which throws Hotch off balance, almost makes him forget why he's come. On top of that it's so _familiar_—the same voice he heard utter thousands of facts, the voice he hasn't heard in so long. He is so distracted that for a moment he doesn't notice the state of the man to whom the voice belongs.

If the voice is familiar, the body is anything but. Reid is skinny. He has always been skinny, so skinny that Hotch had always thought there was no way for him to get any thinner without crumbling to dust, but apparently he was wrong. Reid's clothes—which are filthy, covered in dirt and food, torn in places—hang off his body like he's a child dressing in adult clothing. His hair has gotten long again, but it is not the quirky, unkempt mass of Hotch's memory either, but a sweaty, unwashed nest of tangles so thick that the only way to undo them will be to shave them off. What's more, Reid's face is gaunt and pale, the circles under his eyes more pronounced than ever as he stares at Hotch with a skeletal grin on his lips.

Hotch is so stricken by this that for a moment he fails to notice that Reid is bleeding all over the floor.

When he does, his heart leaps into his throat. It's Reid's hands—and it's no small amount of blood, no antiseptic-and-band-aid job. Deep gashes run through his palms and over the backs of his hands, little cuts littering his fingertips and wrists. Blood is dripping from his hands to the floor, which is covered in shards of broken glass. It looks like Reid has spent the night smashing every plate, cup, bowl, and saucer in his cabinets.

His heart pounding, Hotch opens the door all the way, leans into the hall, and says, "Call an ambulance."

He's surprised at how steady his voice sounds and, as the flurry of footsteps in the hall tells him the ambulance is on its way, he resolves to keep his voice steady and calm. He turns his attention back to the apartment, back to Reid.

"Reid," he says, because he can think of nothing else to say.

"Hotch," the excitement has gone from Reid's voice. Reid frowns. "What are you doing here? Do we have a case?"

Hotch takes a step forward, trying to keep his eyes on Reid's face but wanting to see how much blood he's lost. How long did the landlady say this had been going on? How much could he have lost in fifteen minutes?

Reid doesn't seem to notice that both of his hands have been reduced to ground meat. He blinks at Hotch.

"Why are you here?" he says again.

There is an unfocused look in Reid's eyes which Hotch has never seen there before, not even when Reid was shooting up every morning before coming into the office. That was a haze, a cloud of guilt and shame which had hung in coupling with the relaxation of riding the high over his eyes. Now his eyes are wide and alert, but they aren't looking at Hotch—they are darting back and forth, as if searching for something which neither of them can see.

Hotch takes another step forward and his shoes crunch on the linoleum covering the foyer. He looks down and sees that there is glass _everywhere_—not just in the tiny kitchen, where Reid is standing, but all over the floor, scattered across the carpet of the tiny living room and around the television and coffee table. There is a trail of it leading into the room which Hotch assumes is the bedroom. Reid has not only smashed the glassware in his kitchen, but seems to be in the process of smashing all of the glass in the apartment. Hotch even sees the remains of several light bulbs, evidence of why the lights wouldn't turn on. He readjusts his gait so that he treads lightly on the shards—there is no avoiding them—and steps closer to Reid, gets within a few feet of him.

Reid sniffs and lifts his hand to wipe the sweat which is gathering on forehead, leaving a dark streak of red to stand out in contrast to his porcelain-white skin. He is still trying to look at Hotch, but his eyes continue to flicker and jerk, searching for the source of some unseen disturbance. Hotch realizes he is waiting for an answer to his question, and he has to cast around for one. All of the angry reproaches he had planned on the way over are gone.

"Your landlady called me," he says, and suddenly he has to suppress a gag. A scent is emanating from the kitchen sink, one which he had not caught when he was standing by the door but which, now that he is in closer proximity, slithers into his nostrils and permeates his clothing, making his eyes water. There are dishes piled high in the sink, garbage overflowing out of the bin in the corner, fruit rotting on the counter. He swallows and concentrates on breathing normally.

"Reid, your landlady was concerned about you. She called me. Why don't you come sit down so we can talk?"

He gestures to the couch, one of the few places in the room which is not covered in glass.

"I've been expecting you," says Reid. "I was just thinking about you yester—no, two days ago. Do you remember that case with the girl who went missing at the mall? I talked to her brother, but he—he didn't know where she was. I was just thinking…I was thinking how much I wish we had found her."

Hotch's heart drops a few inches in his chest, and it takes all of his effort to keep his face neutral, his eyes open rather than closed in the expression of horror which would reflect his feelings at this moment. He wants to step closer to Reid, but he doesn't want to startle him, not while he's experiencing an episode like this. He clears his throat to find his voice.

"We did find her Reid," he says. "She was found and she was safe. You helped."

Reid looks away from him, his face twisted with shame.

"We found her," he says. "The little girl. She was hidden away and her mouth—her mouth was covered. She wanted to scream, that's my theory, anyway, that she wanted to scream. And I think she did. I think she did, because I can _hear _it. And she's not the only one, all of them, all of them, all of the ones with their mouths covered they're…all…screaming…"

He trails off, still staring at a spot in the corner of the kitchen. Hotch takes advantage of the moment of silence to step a little closer, his feet crunching on the shards of glass.

Suddenly Reid's hands ball into fists and he slams them both into his head once—twice—three times, leaving bloody splotches on his temples. Instinctively, Hotch leaps forward and seizes Reid's wrists, more to stop him from doing further damage to his hands than to stop him hurting his head. The second he does this he realizes it's a mistake; Reid gives a strangled cry and struggles out of Hotch's grip. His feet slip on the glass-strewn linoleum of the kitchen floor and he almost falls, catching himself on the counter at the last moment.

Hotch throws his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Reid, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. Are you all right?"

Reid's face crumples into an expression of pain, and Hotch is sure he's finally noticed his injuries.

"I just want them to stop screaming," Reid whimpers.

Hotch opens his mouth, not sure what to say. Reid beats him to the reply.

"No," he says. "No, I know they're not—it's _irrational_, but I _can_ hear it so I thought…Did you know glass can vibrate at subtle frequencies? So subtle they're usually undetectable by human ears, but I've been on a new medication, very very new, and one of the side effects is heightened sense of perception. And I know they're not screaming, but the noise has to be coming from somewhere. I just want some sleep."

He raises his hands and seizes handfuls of his hair, grabbing it with such desperation he seems intent on pulling it out of his scalp. At last Hotch gets a good look at the amount of blood on the floor and all he can think is, _Where the hell is that ambulance_?

Reid is only wearing one shoe. Shards of glass are poking out of his bare foot. Thoughts of the couch leave Hotch's mind and instead he reaches for the broom in the corner by the fridge. While Reid is clutching his hair, Hotch hastily clears a space on the ground and then tosses the broom aside.

"Reid," he says, trying to speak as if they are in the office, as if he is giving a performance review rather than trying to calm a man in the middle of a psychotic episode, "please sit down."

Reid lets go of his hair, and for a moment Hotch thinks it is in response to his request. Then Reid reaches around him without raising his head and grabs one of the few plates on the counter which isn't already broken.

Once again, Hotch reacts instinctively. As Reid lifts the plate to send it crashing to the floor, Hotch reaches out and tugs it from his grasp. The moment he does it he expects Reid to react violently, to snatch the plate back or fly into a rage. What he does not expect is for Reid to draw his arms into his chest, curling into himself like a dog trying to protect itself from an abusive master.

"Please don't take it away, please," Reid says, his breath hitching. "Please, if I don't get rid of it they'll never stop."

"Okay," says Hotch. "Okay. Reid, if you sit down, I'll get rid of them for you. You just have to sit here, on the floor."

Red looks at the spot on the floor which Hotch has cleared for him. Without a word, he stumbles into it like a child stepping into a fairy ring. He doesn't sit so much as collapse into a cross-legged position, his head lolling with exhaustion and blood loss.

"Are they gone yet?" he asks.

"Almost," says Hotch, because he doesn't know what else to say.

From somewhere very far away comes the faint wail of sirens.

**Just a side note—I'm not a big fan of the "Reid has schizophrenia" scenario for several reasons, but mostly because this is how it plays out in my head. One more chapter after this. **


	3. Chapter 3

"True friendship is like sound health; the value of it is seldom known until it be lost." _- _Charles Caleb Colton

After it is all done, getting Reid out of the apartment and into the ambulance is a memory Hotch will try hard to forget, though he will never be entirely successful. Though eventually the whole affair becomes an unpleasant jumble of shouts and flailing limbs, it is all terribly vivid in his mind as he sits in the waiting room at Potomac, staring at the congealed blood on his hands and thinking of how Reid had shouted when the paramedics had entered, how he had staggered to his feet and nearly fallen in the glass at the sight of strangers in his apartment, his movements conveying all the desperation of a cornered animal. In some perverse way Hotch was thankful that Reid was too weak from blood loss and, he suspected, not eating, to put up much of a fight, though the paramedics still had to subdue him physically to get him onto the stretcher. While one of them was strapping a feebly protesting Reid to the stretcher, the other turned to Hotch.

"Is he on any medication?" he asked.

Hotch shook his head. He didn't know.

The paramedic frowned and opened his mouth as if to ask why, why the man who had gotten out of his bed in the middle of the night to come here and take care of his clearly mentally-ill friend did not know what medications he was taking, but at that moment Reid shouted, "Hotch! Hotch, please, don't let them! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, just don't let them take me—"

Hotch had stepped around them then, placed a hand on Reid's arm.

"Reid, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Please," Reid said.

Hotch had ridden in the ambulance with them as well. Reid had calmed down on the way downstairs, and he was silent in the ambulance, seemingly on the verge of sleep, until the paramedic tried to place an IV. When Reid had seen the needle he had renewed his feverish attempts to break free of the restraints, his eyes wide and wild.

"I don't want it," he begged. "Please, I don't want it."

In the end Hotch was the one who held Reid's arm down as they drove the IV into his exposed veins, murmuring apologies and comforts, his heart breaking all the while.

After that, Reid didn't speak at all. When they had gotten to the hospital the paramedics had directed him to the waiting room and then taken Reid off in another direction.

Two hours have passed since then, and no one has come to give Hotch an update, though he has made sure the nurse knows he is waiting for one more than once. He's even flashed his badge, hoping it will make a difference, but the nurse merely glanced at it and returned to her paperwork, directing him back to the stiff plastic chairs that lined the narrow hallway.

It's been two hours and Hotch has just realized that he has Reid's blood on his hands. As soon as he makes this realization he feels an urgent need to remedy it, and he asks the nurse to direct him to the men's room, where he spends several minutes scrubbing his hands and watching the diluted crimson foam swirl down the drain. When he returns to his seat he uses his Blackberry to send Rossi an email saying his son is sick, he won't be in to work in the morning.

Another hour passes. It is nearly four a.m. now and Hotch is beginning to feel the strain of exhaustion, the realization that he hasn't slept properly in five days hitting him along with the terrible weight of what he has just discovered. In an effort to keep himself awake he calls Jessica and tells her that he might not be home in time to make Jack breakfast, but he doesn't give her the details just yet. Jessica reads the note of fatigue and hurt in Hotch's voice and doesn't press the issue.

Hotch watches others filter in and out, none of them talking, most of them wearing identical expressions of defeat and absolute weariness. He suspects that must be how he looks, and the fact that he's wearing a nice suit doesn't change that. They come and go without a word to him. By the time five o'clock rolls around and it's time for the nurses to change shifts, Hotch is the only one left.

The new nurse is younger than the one who dismissed Hotch's badge. She doesn't have the same aura of disillusionment, and she brings him a cup of coffee.

"Melinda said you've been here all night," she says. "The doctor just paged, he'll be down in a moment to speak with you."

Hotch thanks her and drains the terrible coffee in one gulp. When the doctor arrives he gets to his feet.

The doctor is a short, thin man with a bald patch and thick glasses. He is not dressed in a white coat, but in jeans and a light blue t-shirt, and there are dark circles around his eyes. Nevertheless, his grip is firm when he shakes Hotch's hand.

"Agent Hotchner, I assume?" he says, and then charges on without waiting for a reply. "I'm Dr. Daniels, Spencer's psychologist. I'm sorry it took so long for me to get to you—I'm afraid it's partly my fault, the hospital had to contact me at home when they found out that I'm his doctor. It also looks like Spencer's been off his medication for some time. He wasn't really lucid when I arrived, and it took some time to calm him down. We've got him on a mild sedative now, as well as a concoction of a few other things. He's resting comfortably. Why don't you sit down?"

Normally in a situation like this Hotch would have preferred to stay standing, if only to maintain an illusion of authority. This time the exhaustion gets the better of him and he sinks back into the hard plastic chair. Dr. Daniels sits beside him.

Hotch runs his hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw. God, he must look a mess.

"He's been on medication?" he says.

Dr. Daniels nods. "For about six months. It's been working well up until now. This is actually his first major episode—though I'm not going to pretend it wasn't a bad one.

"And the medication is for…?"

Hotch knows the answer before he hears the words leave Dr. Daniels's lips, but he's not going to accept it until he hears it for himself, not going to allow the words to enter his mind until it has been placed there by someone else, because for some reason labeling Reid in such a way feels like a terrible betrayal.

"Paranoid schizophrenia," says Dr. Daniels. "I diagnosed him myself when he came to me last year, complaining of headaches and hallucinations. It's rare for it to show up this late in life, but it does happen. He's been handling it about as well as I've ever seen a person handle it, a very high-functioning patient. One of my favorites. Terribly intelligent, too." Dr. Daniels smiles faintly. "A bit too intelligent, on occasion; he often shows me up in our sessions."

Hotch shakes his head, and finds that his feet are the only place he can stand to look at the moment. He wonders if Reid's blood is on his soles.

"I didn't—"

"I know he didn't tell you."

Hotch looks up, and finds the look on Dr. Daniels' face to be extremely sympathetic.

"I encouraged him to contact you and your team. He speaks of all of you very fondly, and it's very important that a person with his condition have some supervision. I should tell you now that I was always skeptical about Spencer living on his own, but until now he's been so high-functioning I've had no reason not to let him. He's always insisted that he didn't want to burden any of you with his condition. I would guess that stems from his childhood experiences."

Hotch looks back at his shoes, thinks, Yes, that's certainly part of it. Reid always had a peculiar habit of acting heroic—sometimes to the point of stupidity—the more dire the situation. He used to wonder if anyone else noticed this—noticed that it had been Reid who had taken down the unsub when they had been held hostage in that emergency room, Reid who had, ultimately, saved himself from Hankel and from the consequences of that encounter, Reid who had kept Morgan away from the anthrax-infested house and left himself to suffer alone, Reid who had taken a bullet and then taken down another unsub without so much as flinching. And even when they had met his mother, Reid had been hesitant to make her illness known, only doing so when he thought it would benefit the situation with that particular unsub. It was very like him to suffer in silence, but this did not alleviate the growing knot of guilt working its way through Hotch's intestines. Reid had demonstrated his propensity for keeping his hurt a secret on so many occasions, _why_ hadn't they listed that among the possible reasons he had disappeared?

Anger, he muses bitterly, has a powerful effect on one's ability to see.

Hotch clears his throat, looks back at Dr. Daniels.

"What happened this time?" he said. "Why was he—?"

He stops abruptly, unable to find the words to describe what he had seen in the apartment.

"It looks like he stopped taking his medication," says Dr. Daniels, his voice soft. "Judging by his clothes and the level of malnutrition, he's been in this state for a few days, maybe a week. Normally I would have had our daily sessions, but he told me he was at a conference and I had no reason not to believe him. He went to another three months ago without incident—and he's been teaching at the local community college a few days a week without any problems. We'll keep him on intravenous nutrients for a while, try getting some solid food in him as soon as he's up to it."

"What about his hands?"

Hotch has not been able to get the image of the deep cuts, the blood so dark it was almost black, out of his mind.

"We got him stitched up, but it looks like some of the cuts may have done nerve damage. He'll need physical therapy, probably, maybe some surgery, but that's too far in the future for us to guess now. He's exhausted, naturally, from the whole ordeal. But he was cogent enough to give me permission to speak to you before I left—and to ask for you to come see him."

Hotch swallows and does not reply. Now that it comes to it, he's not sure if he can face Reid, not until he's had more time to regain his composure. Then he thinks, why has he been sitting here all night, if not to see Reid?

Dr. Daniels gets to his feet.

"Whether or not you want to go up is up to you," he says, "but if Spencer ever needed a friend, it's got to be now. You think about it for a while, Agent Hotchner. I have to go fill out the transfer papers, then I'll be back to—"

"He's being transferred?"

To his surprise, Hotch finds himself on his feet, looking Dr. Daniels straight in the eye. Dr. Daniels looks mildly surprised.

"Not until he's feeling better physically, but yes, Spencer will have to be moved to a psychiatric facility."

From somewhere deep in his chest, beyond the soporific blanket of exhaustion and confusion, rage works its way to the surface.

"You just informed me that this was his first major episode," he says. "Surely that doesn't warrant institutionalization?"

"Not usually, no," says Daniels carefully, "but considering the extent to which Spencer injured himself—"

"His injuries were not intentional, Doctor."

"No, but—"

"And he's clearly not a danger to others."

"No, but—"

"I know Dr. Reid," says Hotch, "and institutionalizing him is the worst thing you could do for him."

Dr. Daniels looks at the fierce expression in Hotch's eyes, then sighs, shaking his head.

"Agent Hotchner, I agree with you. I know that Spencer has a deep fear of ending up in the same position as his mother, but unfortunately it's not up to me. The law states that if a patient is a potential danger to himself or others he has to be in a psychiatric facility for a period of observation."

"And how long will that be?"

Again, Dr. Daniels shakes his head.

"That depends on a variety of factors—his evaluations, the effectiveness of his medication—but to be honest, I highly doubt that Spencer will be released without someone to supervise him at home, at least for a while."

"I'll take him." Hotch says the words without thinking.

The sympathetic smile finds its way back to Daniels' lips. He places a hand gently on Hotch's arm.

"I appreciate the offer, Agent Hotchner, but Spencer's told me about your work. He's going to need constant supervision when he's released, and your job doesn't allow for that." He takes his hand away and turns down the hall. "I hate to cite a cliché, or to compare Spencer to a child, but in this case, it truly is going to take a village."

**Okay, I lied. One more part after this. **


	4. Chapter 4

**This is indeed the final chapter. I love writing for this fandom, and I thank you all for reading despite the rather depressing nature of my subjects.**

"Nothing is secure but life, transition, the energizing spirit." Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hotch has been lingering in the doorway to Reid's room for five minutes, standing just outside, his feet pressing forward and the rest of him leaning back, his body in a furious battle to determine whether or not it will enter the room. His indetermination comes from the fact that Reid is not asleep, as he had expected him to be. He is awake and staring at the ceiling, his eyes unmoving. Someone has cut away the mass of knots that was his hair leaving an uneven patchwork clinging dully to his head. He keeps himself still except occasionally to lift his heavily bandaged hands to tug feebly at the restraints holding them to the bed. The movement seems unconscious.

It shouldn't make such a difference, Reid being awake, except that when he had resolved to come upstairs and visit him Hotch had imagined Reid would be asleep. For some reason this small deviation from the expected has thrown him off balance, caused him to forget everything he was going to say when he finally got to speak to his old friend.

Just when Hotch is about to turn away, to go home, freshen up, and come back in the evening when both he and Reid are feeling more up to it, Reid speaks.

"You can come in, if you want."

He doesn't look away from the ceiling as he says this

Hotch steps into the room purposefully and without hesitation, as if Reid's voice has broken a spell he didn't know he was under. Once inside, he stops a few feet short of the bed.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't think you had seen me."

"I could hear you breathing."

Still Reid does not look away from the ceiling. His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. This is somehow more unnerving than if he had sounded terrified. Resignation is not something Hotch has ever wanted to hear in Reid's voice.

Hotch realizes he is not going to get an invitation to come closer, and so he does so on his own, taking the chair by Spencer's bed. It is made of the same material as the one in the hallway.

As he sits Reid's eyes finally slide over to him, his head turning along with them, and Hotch sees that they are bloodshot and red-rimmed. If he has been crying, though, he is not crying now. His gaunt face looks into Hotch's for a long moment, and Hotch does all he can not to look away.

"You don't look so good, Hotch."

"I had a strange night."

Reid continues to look into Hotch's face, taking another moment before replying.

"I'm sorry. This was never something you were supposed to have to deal with."

A reprimand swells in Hotch's throat, but he swallows it. Now is not the time to berate Reid for not telling them the truth. That will come later, though it will come. Now that he understands why he has not seen Reid in half a year, Hotch has no intention of letting the separation become extended. He chooses his next words carefully.

"I wouldn't have minded so much if I had known what I was heading into, Spencer."

Reid sniffs, but it's more like a tic than an expression of emotion.

"I put you on that contact list right when I moved in," he says. "I meant to change it, but I kept putting it off. I didn't forget—I just kept telling myself it didn't really matter. My psychiatrist would probably find a different significance. I probably would too, if I cared to think about it. But I'm really tired of thinking about my own psychology."

Reid speaks more slowly that Hotch remembers, and he wonders whether that can be attributed to the medication or exhaustion, or something else. He remembers Daniels mentioning that Reid has been working at a community college, and wonders if he's had to slow his prose down for his students.

"I don't blame you for that," he says.

"Do you blame me for leaving?"

It's a blunt question, no emotion to hint at the answer Reid expects or desires. Hotch has already picked up on the direction this conversation is heading—there will be nothing indirect, no skirting around the issues. He thinks Reid just doesn't have the energy. Then again, neither does he.

"I did, but only because I didn't know why. Your departure was somewhat abrupt, Dr. Reid."

"That was kind of the point, Hotch."

"You could have come to us."

"I know."

Reid makes no attempt to elaborate, and so Hotch infers the rest of the reply from the silence. Of course Reid didn't want them to know; the abruptness of his departure was not malicious, it was calculated. Reid had wanted them to be angry, because he had known that anger was the best way to ensure distance. The reasons behind wanting that distance were undoubtedly more complex, but Reid does not seem eager to speak, and Hotch is willing to file it away for another day, another conversation. For Reid's sake, he changes the conversation.

"How are you feeling?"

Reid pauses again before answering, as if scrutinizing the question.

"Tired," he says at last, and he turns his gaze back to the ceiling. "They have me sedated, though, so that's to be expected. You came at a good time. The medications they have me on decrease the effects of my…episodes, but they only give me brief periods of lucidity, and the rest of the time is hazy. Hazy for me, anyway. It's extremely strange—like watching myself through someone else's eyes or…experiencing life in a dream."

This clinical assessment is more unnerving than the detached way in which Reid says it. He can't find a reply, but once again Reid intervenes.

"My hands hurt," he says. "Dr. Daniels says I might have nerve damage. I keep thinking of when I had to go through physical therapy for my knee. I don't think it will be as bad as that."

It's the first time Reid has mentioned being in pain from his knee injury—at least, the first time he's mentioned it to Hotch. It occurs to him that Reid probably wasn't on painkillers during that period, and almost feels angry at himself for not asking, but he is able to forgive himself many of the transgressions made during the Foyet era, and he feels Reid probably does too. Nevertheless, he asks, "Are they giving you anything for the pain?"

"No," says Reid. "Dr. Daniels told them not to and I reiterated it when I was able to. But to be honest, the more I think about it, the more I wonder what the point of it is. When it was affecting my job…but I don't have that job anymore."

"Reid," says Hotch sharply, "your life is not over."

Reid looks at him, a swift, cold look which is over so fast Hotch almost could have imagined it. Then Reid's eyes are back on the ceiling.

"They're going to institutionalize me, Hotch."

"Not permanently," says Hotch, and he hopes that his voice conveys all of the conviction he feels, that Reid will hear the words that go unsaid, that he will personally break Reid out if they refuse to let him go.

"Probably, though. I don't have anyone to keep me from doing _this_ again"—he tugs at his restraints—"except maybe my father, and that's not going to happen. I haven't even told my mother about all of this. I don't want to think about what it would do to her." He smiles bitterly. "I've been keeping track of your cases, watching them on the news so I can still send her letters." The smile disappears. "I don't know what I'll do now."

Reid hesitates for a moment, then turns to look at Hotch once more.

"Hotch, please don't tell anyone else about this."

"Reid…"

"I'm asking you, please don't tell them. I'd rather—"

He stops short, takes a sharp breath. It is the first indication of any strong emotion Reid has given since Hotch entered the room.

"I'd rather they keep on hating me than see me like this."

At this Hotch gets to his feet. He can't help himself. He doesn't want to appear anything more than Spencer's equal in this situation, but for some reason he can't stop himself from standing over Reid at this moment, staring down into the eyes which won't look into his.

"Reid," he says slowly, deliberately, "nobody _hates_ you. They're confused, they're upset, but it's not _hate_. It's quite the opposite, in fact. I won't pretend to know all the reasons you wanted to keep us out of this, but if any part of it comes from a sense of shame, you should take me as an indication that no one is going to think any less of you because of this. I don't believe that you don't want us to be a part of your life any more than you believe it, and it should be up to all of us whether or not we want to participate in this. Be angry, Spencer—I am. But don't bury yourself in your anger or your fear out of some misplaced desire for self-denigration. There isn't a person at the office right now who wouldn't want to help you if they knew what was going on, and not a one of them would think less of you for asking for that help."

Hotch finishes, but he does not take his seat again. Reid still will not look at him, and as soon as Hotch is done speaking, his eyes close very slowly. There is a long, heavy silence.

"I think I'm going to sleep for a while," says Reid.

Hotch presses his lips together, biting back a protest. He knows he is not going to get anything more from Reid right now, but that doesn't mean he won't try again later. He nods sharply, though Reid can't see it, and turns for the door. He is almost out when Reid's voice from behind stops him.

"Hotch."

Hotch turns around, finds that Reid is looking at him. There is a small crease in his brow, the beginnings of a grimace, though it isn't until he speaks again that Hotch can identify the emotion behind it.

"I'd really like if you'd come see me sometimes."

Hotch exhales through his nose, swallows hard.

"Of course, Reid. I'll see you soon."

Reid nods once and closes his eyes. Hotch lingers in the doorway a moment longer, then turns and heads toward home.

Hotch takes a taxi home, as his car is still parked outside of Spencer's apartment. On the ride home he is already making plans to go back and retrieve it over the weekend, and to clean up the mess in Reid's apartment while he is there. As soon as that plan is cemented he starts doing figures in his head, wondering how much Reid's rent is and whether he can afford to pay it for a couple of months, just to give Reid a tangible demonstration of his good faith that the current situation is not permanent.

It is nearly eight by the time he arrives home, and Jack and Jessica are well into their morning routine by the time Hotch enters his home. It's Monday, but Jack's school is having a teacher in-service day, meaning he'll be home for the remainder of the day. As much as Hotch wants to spend this time with Jack, however, exhaustion gets the better of him nearly the second he walks inside, and after a quick hug hello he excuses himself to the bedroom.

Hotch sleeps until that evening, gets up in time for dinner and a playful reprimand from Jack for "sleeping backwards." He puts Jack to bed that night, finding the familiar actions of setting out his son's pajamas out and reading his bedtime story soothing. After he has turned out the light he stands outside Jack's room, watching him through the partially opened door until his breathing evens, signaling that he has gone to sleep. He watches for another moment before turning reluctantly away and heading downstairs.

Jessica is waiting for him in the kitchen. She pushes a cup of coffee toward him and says, "I'm making cookies. Want to stay up?"

In reality, Hotch could probably spend another decade or so catching up on sleep, but he catches the hidden meaning behind Jessica's words and sits himself at the island, enjoying the scent of chocolate wafting from the oven. Jessica sits across from him and gives him look of concern which reminds him strongly of Haley.

"So," she says, "what happened?"

And Hotch tells her. He tells her because he has no one else to tell, and because he learned long ago that these kind of secrets will press you into the ground if you don't have someone to share the weight. He tells her because she is trustworthy and willing to listen, and because she takes care of his son without ever uttering a word of complaint, because she knows what it means to sacrifice parts of yourself for someone else and right now that is exactly the kind of person he needs to talk to. Jessica listens carefully, quietly, sipping a cup of tea and never taking her eyes off of him except to retrieve the cookies from the oven and pile them onto a plate, which she pushes toward him as he finishes by saying, "He doesn't want me to tell anyone."

Jessica is quiet for another moment. Then she gestures to the plate of cookies, indicating that Hotch should take one. After his long confession, he's not really in the mood for baked goods, but the taste is surprisingly good when he bites into one to appease her.

"I'm probably not the best person to ask," says Jessica, "but in my opinion, when someone is trying so hard not to ask for help is exactly the right time to give it to them."

That's all she says. After she's finished speaking, she grabs a cookie, pats his hand platonically, and heads upstairs to her bedroom.

Hotch stays awake a while longer, just long enough to finish his cookie. Then he stands, turns out the lights, goes around to check all of the doors. When this is finished, he heads upstairs and goes to bed.

The next day Hotch goes to the office. He greets his team, assures them, yes, Jack is fine, thank you for your concern. He goes into his office and does paperwork for most of the morning. Around noon Garcia pokes her head through his door and asks if he'd like to come out to lunch with them, her face glowing and friendly. Hotch politely declines and spends his lunch hour straightening his desk. At twelve fifty he hears laughter in the bull pen, signaling that lunch is over. He steps outside and asks everyone to meet him in the round table room.

They gather quietly, murmuring to one another with mild confusion, Garcia assuring the others that they do not have a case that she knows of, Rossi leaning back in his chair on the edge of it all with an expression suggesting that although he doesn't know what's coming next he's prepared for anything. Hotch takes his own seat at the table last, and surveys them all for a moment even after the chatter has died down. When the silence becomes prolonged, Morgan says, "What's up, Hotch? Have we got a case?"

Hotch looks hard at Morgan, takes a deep breath, and says, "I saw Reid yesterday."

Hotch sees the surprise on Emily's face, the eager desperation on Garcia's. He sees Rossi's eyebrows arch involuntarily, betraying his astonishment. He sees Seaver attempt to keep an expression of interest while not betraying her confusion and shock. He sees the anger which twists Morgan's mouth into a scowl and threatens to close him off. He sees all of these things and wishes he could see beyond them, that some comforting future would arise from the quiet of this familiar room and present itself to still his fears and his uncertainty. He wishes someone would wrap an arm around his shoulder and tell him yes, you're doing the right thing. He wishes Reid were here to tell them all himself—or better yet, that Reid was here because there was nothing to tell.

He wishes all of these things for just a moment, and then he lets them go. It doesn't matter what he wishes, now. No matter how uncertain the future, he has just sent them all plunging toward it, and they will not be turning back. What's more, he is certain none of them will want to.


End file.
